"Falconer,—Massa Guy," repeated the black nurse to herself. "Bery curous. Phœbe nebber hear dis afore, but bless de Lord she hear it now."
But it was not so very "curous," seeing that Phœbe's chief charge lay in the nursery, and that she never asked questions about visitors, nor interfered with the other servants.
Though she never entered any of the churches, and had as much respect for the Pope as for Juggernaut, she had much keen observation, and with her infant charge had traversed the city and found out many of its scenes of interest, so that without any great difficulty, she traced her way to the lodgings of the English artist.
The maître d'hôtel was surly and uncommunicative. Signor Anglais was gone, he could not tell where; it was hard to lose a lodger who paid punctually, and gave little trouble, but he knew nothing more.
Phœbe did not believe him; but, bowed out, and the door shut upon her, she could do no more in the way of cross-examination.
As she slowly retraced her steps along the silent street, a poor ragged looking boy followed her, and without looking into her face, said in low broken English as he passed,—
"You want kind Englis' gentleman? He teach Pierre, and let him clena palette."
"Whar he be, chile? What you know 'bout him?"
"He all safe, Madame Blackamoor. Pierre help him to escape, all safe," and he nodded with infinite self-complacency.
"Tell whar him be, you chile?" cried Phœbe, laying her firm hand on the boy's old coat-collar.